


Shadow Girl (A BBC Sherlock FanFiction)

by scarletmichaelis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletmichaelis/pseuds/scarletmichaelis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Reichenbach the world didn't believe in Sherlock Holmes. John Watson did his best, but in the end he chose to move on: he got something half decent with a girl named Mary, and occasionally was asked for help by DI Lestrade. But now Sherlock's returned from the dead... and apparently Moriarty is too, but he's lost almost everything. So he asks the help of a most unlikely ally, an ally that might pull the stakes higher than ever for anyone... even for Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Her hand rested in the fine table, the long, perfectly painted purple nails glimmering in the light of the little lamp as she thumped delicately on the ebony, waiting.

The door opened and a man stepped in. _He_ stepped in. She felt the room change, almost as if all sanity suddenly ran away through the closest little crack and only fear and madness lingered. She shuddered lightly enough for him not to notice, and stood up.

"Ah, love, so glad you could make it." the characteristic maniacal grin appearing in his face as he walked towards her. He held out a hand, and she felt her guts boil. She loathed him so she would have ripped his throat off right there and then, had they not been in his estate and her life too in jeopardy. She knew the game all too well, and would play it right.

She forced herself to smile and shook his hand "Glad you called" she replied "it's been ages."

"So cold." he pulled her close, still holding her hand and putting his free arm around her waist "Didn't you miss me?" he pouted.

"Oh, you have no idea" she said, her smile warm and wide. He leaned closer and brushed his lips with hers. She could feel bile burning in the back of her throat but didn't move. He made no attempt to deepen the kiss, and simply lingered there a couple seconds before pulling back.

"Okay, let's get to business, shall we?" he said, letting go of her and gesturing to the couch she'd been sitting on. She nodded and sat down with her legs crossed, hands folded with fingers intertwined and resting on her knee. He sat beside her, placing his arm in the back of the couch around her shoulders but not touching her.

"So, I have a job for you"

"I figured." she smirked. He handed her an envelope. "The target's archive." she made no attempt to take it.

"Love the detail, darling, but you know how I work."

He frowned "I think you'll find this one interesting." he said "Love, please?"

She sighed "Since you insist..." She took the envelope and stood up. She had no bag and was still wearing her coat so she simply walked out of the room. Just as she was leaving the building (she knew he'd be watching from the window) she cried "But I'll still do it my way, we clear on that?"

"Fine, fine, do your thing. But I do expect results... and soon." he answered from the window. She chuckled.

"We'll see." she mumbled to herself, a genuine smile lighting her face. She opened the envelope and pulled out the pages.

"My my.... Interesting indeed"


	2. Boredom

Sherlock was lying on the couch, bored as usual. It was getting late: John was still at the clinic and hadn't been answering to any of his texts, which only encouraged Sherlock's boredom. He needed a CASE! The stillness of the flat was exasperating, Mrs. Hudson was out and John had hidden his cigarretes, patches and had taken the bullets out of the gun so he couldn't even shoot at the annoying yellow face on the wall. He knew there were some fingers in the fridge but no experiments came to mind.

He stood and paced across the living room, tuned his violin, played a bit, even tried to compose something, but the wheels running on his brain were driving him mad, too much even for music.

"BORED! " he yelled.

Suddenly there was a faint, almost musical laughter.

Sherlock turned around to meet with... the same stupid, silent empty flat of 3 seconds before. Grunting, he started to pace again, and right before he retorted to throwing things around just to make noise he heard the beep of his phone: a new message! At last! He jumped back on the couch and read John's text.

_You bloody prick, I was in surgery. Couldn't you wait a couple hours? Or seconds, perhaps? JW_

_No, John, I couldn't. Are you coming back soon? SH_

_Sorry, I'm staying at Mary's. You'll have to cope on your own tonight. JW_

_John. Mrs Hudson's gone, I have no case and no bullets. You took my bullets! John, please, come back. SH_

_No. Go buy the bullets if you want them, I'm not coming back. JW_

_John... SH_

_No, Sherlock. Goodnight. JW_

_Can you at least get me a cigarette? SH_

_..._

_John? SH_

_..._

_I hate you. SH_

_..._

"Damn him" Sherlock growled, taking his coat, his scarf and storming out of 221B Baker Street.

\-------------------

"I am going to _kill you._ " a half dressed, very flustered John snapped at him.

"You told me where you were going to be, and I need you" Sherlock replied.

"I don't care, Sherlock, when I tell you that I'm not coming home it means I want to be left alone for a while, I'm sure your brilliant mind can figure that out!" John half yelled.

"Yes, but I _need_ you" Sherlock said, impassive. John sighed.

"Look, Sherlock, go home. I'll give back the bullets, but please, just... _go home_ , ok?"

Sherlock frowned "Fine." he said. John walked into the house. "But at least tell me where the patches are!" Sherlock cried through the open door.

"Second drawer, Christmas jumper." John replied.

"Lame spot" Sherlock's grin was mocking as John stepped back into the porchligh.

"But you didn't find them, did you?" John smirked.

Sherlock grimaced "Good point."

"Goodnight, Sherlock." John said, shutting the door.

"Goodnight, John." Sherlock mumbled, walking back into the street.


	3. Window

The cab halted for the thousandth time. Sherlock cursed under his breath. John's girlfriend lived way too far from 221B for Sherlock to be comfortable with it: he'd been on that bloody cab for nearly 40 minutes and had barely left King's Cross behind. Oh, how he wanted to lie in the couch and put on a... maybe two patches, it was getting bad enough for two.

He remembered Mycroft saying just how much John missed him, but apparently all John had time for since Sherlock's return was that... _girlfriend_ of his. It had been two months since he'd make himself known again, yet Lestrade had barely called him and most of the clients that used to overrun John's blog had believed Moriarty's farce, so Sherlock was desperate for a case...

Moriarty. He'd caused all of this, and he wasn't even dead. How could he have missed it? How couldn't he have noticed that the shot had been fake? Sherlock knew it was stupid to ponder over it, the only thing he could do was to, hopefully, find him before more people died. Yet, neither him, nor Lestrade nor Mycroft knew where Moriarty was or what he was up to... it was like chasing a ghost.

The cab stopped, for real this time. Sherlock paid the driver, stepped out of the car and shut the door with such force that how the glass remained intact was a mystery.

"Oi! What's wrong with ya, mate?" The man cried; Sherlock ignored him.

He opened the door of 221B, slammed it behind him and jumped the steps all the way up to John's bedroom. He ran to the second drawer, pulled out the hideous jumper John had the terrible custom of wearing on Christmas and almost purred when he heard the plop the box of patches made hitting the carpet.

He ran back to the flat, took off his coat and scarf and put on, just as he'd predicted, two patches. He felt the rush of nicotine numbing his body and speeding his mind, and let out a sigh of relief. Only problem was, he didn't really have anything to think about.... perhaps alcohol would have been better on a situation like this. He pulled the bullets out of his coat pocket and placed them in the gun. Bang, bang, bang.

"BORED!" He yelled to the top of his lungs, dropping into his armchair. Then he noticed. He stood up and walked to the window: it had been opened but not completely closed, which meant whoever had opened it had either left in a rush or... they were still there.

Sherlock turned around, and saw her. Tall, strong, agile, clad in black fitted clothes that covered her body up to her neck, black leather gloves, short blonde hair glued to her skull, a marble-like face and a pair of shiny dark eyes that perfectly mirrored Sherlock surprise.

They stood there, frozen, looking into each other's eyes until he snapped back and lifted the gun.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" He asked as calmly as he could.

She blinked and suddenly jumped him. He predicted her pattern of movement: she expected him to shoot, then she'd jump over him using his hands, probably hit him in the head and run to the window: so instead he dropped the gun and catched her midair, making both of them fall.

Then her pattern changed. She flipped in his arms and smashed her palms over his ears, stunning him long enough to break loose, but Sherlock recovered his senses as she started to run for the window and grabbed her ankle, making her fall flat on the floor. She gasped as he pulled her close... and he realized his mistake.

She rolled, and kicked his temple. A rush of pain like nothing he remembered drove through him, and everything went black.


	4. Questions

Sherlock was lying on his bed, and his head throbbed. He felt a slight pressure against his temple, presumably a wet cloth. John? But John was gone, wasn't he? He remembered... being bored, seeing John at Mary's, getting back to the flat.... and what then? Why did his head hurt?

"John? My head hurts, what happened?" He mumbled.

There was a sigh. "I can hardly be compared to Dr Watson, Mr Holmes, and I'm truly sorry about your head, but you weren't supposed to be here."

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. Her face was inches away from his, and she looked worried. He tried to move away, only to realize that his hands and feet were tied to the bed, just tight enough to immobilize him without hurting him.

Sherlock Holmes, completely defenseless at the mercy of a clearly deadly woman... who was cleaning the wound that, now he remembered, she herself had inflicted on him. She submerged the cloth she'd been pressing on his head on a bowl of warm water, squeezed it and gestured to put it on his head again, but he snapped.

"Who are you? Why did you attack me? Why on Earth are you taking care of me now? _AND WHY AM I TIED TO MY BED?_ " He bellowed.

She sighed again; he couldn't help finding the sound quite irritating. "So noisy. And so many questions." She complained. "Who I am is irrelevant, Mr Holmes, so I won't answer that one. You threatened me, I was simply defending myself. I'm taking care of you because I overdid that self-defense, and you being tied to your bed is a necessary precaution as you're likely to attack me again. Now keep still, your head's still bleeding." She explained as if it had all been obvious from the beginning, then grabbed the cloth and placed it on his temple.

"You broke into my flat." He stated, and grimaced as she pressed the fabric to his skull to stop the blood flow.

"Yes." She replied, her voice emotionless.

"It was only obvious I would react."

"You weren't supposed to be here." She repeated.

"It's my flat." He retorted.

"You left. Anyway, it makes no difference: _you weren't supposed to be here_." She dropped the cloth into the bowl and placed her hands over her legs: he noticed she was still wearing gloves.

"Now, you promise not to attack me if I untie you?"

Sherlock frowned. "Why would I...?"

She shot him a menacing look. "Your wound is minimal but you'll need painkillers and a bandage. I have to untie you to put it on, and then I promise I'll leave, but it's up to you whether you're conscious for it or not. It wouldn't be a problem to knock you out again without hurting you, as I'm sure you've already deduced."

Sherlock considered: he hated being unconscious. "Alright. I won't attack you."

"Very well, Mr Holmes." She said, and undid the knot that held one of his hands, then proceeded to untie his feet, leaving him to undo the knot on his other hand. He sat with his back against the frame of the bed, rubbed his wrists and looked up at her. She was searching for something in John's first aid kit.

"Why are you still wearing gloves?" He asked. A smirk crossed her face.

"Out of all the things you could have asked you wonder about my gloves? That's not very becoming of you: asking something that has an obvious answer." She pulled some disinfectant out of the kit, soaked a cotton swab in it and cleaned his wound.

Sherlock flinched: both her words and the disinfectant stung. "How could you possibly know what's becoming of me? I've never seen you before tonight." She chuckled as she placed the bandage on his head.

"Indeed. You see but you don't observe, Mr Holmes. I've been around for some time, and I know far more about you than you can imagine. However, that's not important... at least not yet." She closed the kit and stood up.

"Yet? What does that mean? What do you want with me?" Sherlock stood too despite his throbbing head: he couldn't let her go without getting some answers.

She sighed for what he felt like the hundredth time. "What difference does it make if you know what I want? Mr Holmes, I consider you a smart man, do not disappoint me." She walked towards the window, but he grabbed her wrist.

" _Disappoint you_? Why should I care about that?" He hissed, pulling her close and staring deeply into her eyes. They were dark brown, nearly black, yet shone like diamonds; he wondered how such dark eyes could shine so much.

She looked back at him. "Don't you know? The right impression can save your life." He leaned close: their faces only a couple inches away.

"So I've been told." He whispered as she got closer. He could feel her breath on his chin: she smelled faintly of lemons.

"You'd be wise to listen." She purred, and brushed her lips against his. A syringe appeared in her hand and she drove it into his arm. Sherlock staggered back, falling onto the bed, his consciousness fading away as she climbed up the window. "Goodnight, Mr Holmes."


	5. Doubt

John walked into the flat, finding it a bigger mess than usual. He sighed and thanked his good sense of going upstairs to leave his things first. He took a quick peek at the kitchen; thankfully Sherlock hadn't blown anything up, so at least he could save himself that trouble and get easily done with the rest of the place. He rolled up his sleeves and started to pick things up, finding the box of patches thrown in his armchair and three new bullet holes on the wall. John cursed under his breath.

"I knew I shouldn't have given him the bullets, that blasted idiot..." His foot hit something. He looked down: it was his gun. Why would Sherlock just drop the gun, and so close to the kitchen, a spot where anyone could get it? Sure, the detective was careless, but not that much.

"Sherlock? You there?" John walked slowly towards the room; the door was half open, another unusual thing for his flatmate: he was obsessed with the privacy of his room. John pushed the door carefully and peered inside. The sight that met him stopped his heart for a second: Sherlock was trampled on the floor, fully dressed and with a bandage on the head.

"My God, Sherlock!" John could do little but panic, it felt like St Bart's all over again. He ran to his friend and lifted his limp body onto the bed. Pressing two fingers to the other man's neck he let go a sigh of relief. Sherlock was knocked out and would probably have a headache when he woke up, but he wasn't dead. The doctor looked at the bandage: it was almost professionally placed, so the detective hadn't been the one to put it on. Again, he was careless.

John nudged Sherlock: he groaned but didn't wake up. Ok, so he'd been drugged. What had happened last night? Why would anyone hurt Sherlock, nurse him and then leave him unconscious? Moriarty popped into his mind. Had the bastard finally decided to strike again? No, this didn't seem like something he would do, this was... too random, too weird. John decided to wait until Sherlock was awake to figure out what was going on.

He stepped out of the room and went into the kitchen, planning to put something together: God knew how long the detective had gone without food and sedatives weren't good on the stomach.

_3 hours later_

Sherlock grunted, rolled over and fell off the bed. That hurt, he thought. His mind wandered aimlessly over guns and windows and dark eyes... what? Eyes? When had he ever cared about eyes?

"John?" He called groggily, trying to stand up and failing. "John?" it was louder this time. He heard his flatmate's footsteps approaching the room.

"Sherlock, you okay?" The doctor opened the door, a concerned expression stamped on his features.

"Yes, of course, why wouldn't I be?" The detective replied, trying to stand up again. John walked up to him and helped him back onto the bed.

"Found you unconscious a few hours ago, care to explain what the hell happened last night?" John's eyes seemed to pierce into his brain; Sherlock shook his head and felt a pulsing pain on his entire skull.

"I need painkillers." He gruffed. John nodded and went back to the kitchen: he'd kept the tea and toast warm so he just placed them on a tray and went back into the bedroom. Sherlock had curled halfway under the covers and was pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. John noticed his medical kit lying open on the floor beside the bed, and after sighing bent over to pick the painkiller box.

"Shut up," Sherlock complained "it's annoying."

John flinched. He knew the detective was always rough on his statements, but the doctor was only trying to help and that ungrateful comment has certainly hurt. "I didn't say anything."

"She wouldn't stop sighing, like I was some stupid kid." Sherlock said, taking the cup from John's hand and swallowing the pills "She's obviously younger than me and she treated me as you would a child." He grimaced and looked up to his flatmate. "You just sighed too, John... am I an annoying child?"

John was taken aback by the vulnerability on his friends face: he did seem like a little boy who's just been told he's not wanted.

"Usually yes, you are... but what on earth are you talking about, Sherlock? _She_ who? What happened last night?"

The detective looked up to the window, looking utterly confused. "I came in and she was here. I pointed the gun at her, she made for the window, I stopped her but she knocked me out. Then I woke up here, tied to the bed, and she was cleaning my wound. I... it doesn't make sense, none of it. She's clearly an assassin, so... it just doesn't make sense." He moaned, and covered his face with his large hands.

John had been listening carefully, and as Sherlock had pointed out it made no sense at all: neither his explanation on itself nor the facts which John had sorted out. Someone had come with apparently obvious intentions and had left before them one of their greatest puzzles yet. But who was this mystery woman that had made the famous Sherlock Holmes so confused?

He looked at his friend. "Look, we'll figure it out, but now you need to eat something."

Sherlock grimaced. "I need to think, John. Food doesn't help."

The doctor gave him a glare. "Shut up and eat, you are not doing any thinking today. Doctor's orders." And with that he stomped out of the room.

Sherlock sighed (the habit was contagious) and grabbed a piece of toast. While he munched on it he openly disregarded the 'doctor's orders' and went deep in thought. He had been looking intently at John all the time: stunned as he was, the detective could still pick up the traces of sex in his friend behind that worried mask.

He never understood why people were so desperate to have intimate contact with another human. He'd never had the experience or had any interest on the matter... yet he couldn't get the image of those eyes out of his mind, nor the feeling of her lips on his. His whole body tingled when he thought of their proximity the previous night. She was... fascinating, exciting even. He took a finger to his mouth. She'd been warm, he thought, but then shrugged away the idea. What was wrong with him?

What was _wrong_ with him?


	6. Old Sport

She checked her clock: 1:43. He was supposed to be home by 1:10 tops... Had her information been wrong? No, that couldn't be, she was always thorough when it came to a target. She sighed and relaxed a bit into the couch: he had to be back sooner or later, and she would be there waiting for him.

Footsteps outside; they got closer by the second. Then the door.

A smirk lit her face: playtime.

As his keys hit the small table on the entrance she pictured him removing his coat and scarf with smooth practiced movements, as he always did. Her face softened: he was cute, so cute that had the circumstances been different she might have turned him into her pet... it was a shame he had to die. But a job was a job, and this one she just couldn't refuse: a girl has debts to pay.

She could hear him walking up the stairs: oh, the delicious muffled echo each step made, marking it as his and his only. She shivered in anticipation.

Suddenly the footsteps stopped. Oh, God, had she left anything out of place? That hadn't turned out well last time.

She stood up, walked quietly around the couch and crouched behind it, out of view from the door. The steps resumed, this time slower and more careful: he could sense there was something fishy going on.

The door opened and he peered into the darkness of the living room. Nothing at first sight, but he knew better... anything could be waiting in the shadows. He turned the lights on: still, nothing obvious. He shrugged and walked into the kitchen, putting the kettle on. She stepped away from the couch and skulked behind him.

"So you're here to kill me, aren't you?" A half grin crossed his face as he turned to face her. "Obviously. You make dangerous connections." She replied, smiling broadly.

"Who sent you?" he asked casually, moving away from the stove and walking out of the kitchen towards the couch.

"Does it matter?" She retorted. "You'll be dead in minutes, I hardly think knowing who paid for it matters at all."

"A dying man's last wish, is it too much to ask?" He asked almost singing as he sat in the very spot she'd been sitting not five minutes ago. "And how can you be so sure you'll be able to kill me anyway?"

"Oh, sweetie, I'm good at what I do. A pity, really. You seem a nice man... but we know better, don't we?"

His smile dropped. "Really? What do we know?" he asked, leaning forward and putting on an innocent and confused mask that she found unbelievably annoying... he was getting less and less cute by the second.

"You're not carrying your gun." She observed "How nice of you to make my job easier" her body shifted: she was now a hunter, and he was her prey.

"What do you know?" his voice was dangerous, and she felt the adrenaline burn her skin: oh, this was going to be good.

"You don't actually need me to tell you, do you? After all," her voice was soft "it's all there." She pointed at his head.

Standing he ran forward, tackled and pinned her to the wall. "And what is that?" He growled, closing his fingers around her neck.

"Not my place to tell." She purred and simultaneously kneed him in the groin and smacked her forehead on his nose. He retreated a bit, barely enough for her to pull her knife out before he fell on her again.

They fell over and struggled for a few seconds before she finally broke free. She ran for the couch, and as he followed her half-blind from his broken nose she climbed up a table, jumped and buried the knife deep into his throat.

He looked up at her, confused and terrified. She watched expressionlessly how the life left his eyes while blood gushed from his wound. It was sad to see always the same old thing: all humans died the same, scared, vulnerable. That moment always made her lose all interest.

She pulled the knife out of the man's neck. God, had it been hard. He'd been a good fight, well trained, but not an actual challenge. Good enough, however, for a veteran.

The kettle had just boiled. She went into the kitchen to shut it up and walked back into the living room.

She stepped back and looked at the bleeding corpse lying at her feet.

5'6"

Caucasian

Blond

Blue eyes

40 years old

She cleaned her knife and gloves on his jacket, pulled out her phone and typed the two words that defined her purpose in life:

Target terminated.


	7. Stars

 

The limp body on the couch twisted slowly as a phone started to ring. Sherlock reached for it and answered without looking. 

 

"Sherlock Holmes"

 

"We have a murder. I need you here as soon as possible" Lestrade's voice was filled with worry: must have been a pretty bad one. "Text me the address" he hanged and shot up. 

 

Finally a case. It had been a month since the incident and Sherlock had had zero entertainment... John didn't help much, he either complained about his persistent interest on the girl or was out with Mary. 

 

As he'd been since, apparently, last night. Sherlock shrugged, walked into his room and got dressed, thinking of her as he chose a shirt. He'd been wearing a white one that night, and it had gotten a bit of blood on the shoulder. Nothing very visible though, so he slipped into it and proceeded with jacket, coat and scarf. 

 

He ran out of the flat, absentmindedly shouting goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and hailed a cab as soon as he got into the street.

 

\----------------

 

His phone beeped as he stepped out of the cab: text from an anonymous number.

 

_Second star to the right._

 

What on Earth...?

 

"Sherlock." Lestrade said in way of greeting. "We're on the third floor." They walked side by side towards the building.

 

"Who's on Foren-" 

 

"Anderson. Behave." Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes.

 

"I will if he does." Lestrade sighed and mumbled something along the lines of "I should just murder the pair of you, and no court would convict."

 

As they reached the second floor they came across Anderson himself, which only managed to tick on everyone's nerves. 

 

"Ah, Anderson!" The detective exclaimed jovially "Long time no see, how are you? Doing brilliant work as always, I presume?"

 

After the fall both Anderson and Sargent Donovan had begun to guard their tongue on their thoughts about Sherlock; either because they had realised he was the real deal and had no choice but to show at least a bit of respect or because they'd started thinking better of him but were too proud to admit it. John, romantic as he was, had his money on the latter, but Sherlock liked to believe it was both.

 

However, whatever relationship existed between the three remained nowhere near friendly. Scowling, Anderson replied. "Could you just do whatever it is you do and leave me alone?" Sherlock delivered his best fake smile and practically sprinted up the stairs; Lestrade ran after him. "AND DON'T CONTAMINATE IT!" Sherlock smirked as he reached the door that had yellow DO NOT CROSS tape. 

 

He entered the room and almost fainted. John, he thought. God no, please be anyone but John. 

 

Rationally he was certain it couldn't be, everyone around him would be acting very differently. Hell, they wouldn't have even called him. Yet the man on the floor looked so much like the good doctor that Sherlock couldn't keep his nerve and had to step out, walking into Lestrade as he did so.

 

"I'm sorry." The DI said, shooting him an apologetic look. "I know it looks a lot like John, but I can assure you he's not." Sherlock took an deep breath, trying to compose himself. He stretched his back, going into deduction mode.

 

"Give me details." He ordered. Lestrade groaned but answered with as much patience as he could muster as they walked back into the room.

 

"Mark Wheton, 40, veteran, lived alone, died between 1 and 3 am... no trace of the killer whatsoever. No one saw anyone suspicious or even not from the neighbourhood, and as far as we know he has no enemies. Apparently we've got ourselves a ghost." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

"Apparently is mild, Lestrade. As far as I've seen this crime scene is impeccable. A good forensic team wouldn't be able to find the slightest lead, let alone Anderson."

 

"Might I remind you we've solved quite a bit of cases without your help?"

 

The younger man grinned. "How many anonymous hints do you think I've given the Yard in the last twenty years?"

 

Lestrade scoffed, gave him an exasperated look and left the room, not before reminding him he had 5 minutes.

 

Sherlock bent and started inspecting the body: the man had died from a single wound on the throat produced by a knife, which had been handled dexterously enough to pierce his aorta with one stroke; he had bled out in less than a minute. There was blood all over the floor, around the body: it seemed like he'd fallen right after he was stabbed. smeared in the jacket, where the murderer had cleaned (statistically)*his hands. 

 

Yet that was the only hint the murderer had left: no footprints, no other marks... or at least none that he'd been able to find yet.

 

He stood up and paced around the flat. It was very much like Baker Street, albeit smaller: kitchen and living room a single space a room and a bathroom. He didn't bother with those, there wasn't evidence they'd been used of late. The kitchen, unlike his own, was spotless: only the kettle was to be seen, yet it hadn't been cleaned recently enough to show evidence. In the living room there was a big armchair that showed signs of being used very frequently, a couch and a small table; one of the walls was occupied by bookshelves and the other one by a fancy flat-screen. The third wall was mostly bare, featuring a couple framed pictures and the window, which looked upon the main street. 

 

Lestrade entered the room, interrupting his pacing. "I need whatever you've got." Sherlock groaned in response: for once, he had no ideas. The anonymous text kept bugging in his brain, obstructing his reasoning. 

 

He looked out the window and let go a frustrated sigh. There was nothing out of place, absolutely nothing that pointed to the murderer. Except...

 

Then he realized it all made sense. This was for him.

 

"This is a hit, Lestrade. Too perfect to be just any murder, and too flawless for serial killer. Whoever did it is a knive-master, and this" he said, pointing to the body "is a target. I see no point in looking for the killer unless there's another one." He turned to leave, but felt Lestrade's hand on his shoulder, turning him around

 

"You have to give me something, you always know something." Lestrade was obviously angry but tried to keep a low voice. Sherlock sighed: bad habit.

 

"This is the cleanest murder at a short distance I've ever seen... the height and strength with which the wound was inflicted would indicate the killer was man taller than the victim, but the closeness indicates he would have been smeared with the blood coming out of the victim's neck, however there's nothing that indicates the killer got any blood on him which would suggest he was, in fact, smaller. Yet the victim is below average male height so the possibility of the killer being an even shorter man is highly unlikely, which points us to the quite probable fact that this killer, or better said, assassin, is actually a female. Aside from this there's little of importance: she's flawless, and this is a common hit. Dwelling on the victim is pointless; nothing about him can point us towards her." He went on his usual rant merely for the sake of showing off: he knew perfectly who'd done it. But this was personal, strictly between the two of them. Lestrade and Scotland Yard could keep their noses out of it.

 

He shrugged Lestrade off. "So that's it? You have to give me more, a woman below 5'6" is half of London! Sherlock!" Sherlock sighed as he ran down the stairs. He'd blatantly lied to Lestrade: she was closer to 5'9", but had put quite a bit of care on not getting ant blood on her. She was smart, and was playing a game that she clearly knew Sherlock had no choice but to play as well.

 

He reached the bottom of the building and crossed the street with as much ease as he could muster. And there it was, a folded piece of paper stuck with a shiny star-shaped sticker, hidden in plain sight among the mass of old flyers plastered into the wall of the alley to which the window allowed view. 

 

Second star to the right, the text had said. Someone liked children's stories, going through all that trouble just to make a reference. He smiled as he took the paper, imagining her sticking it to the wall, carefully and casually. And no one had noticed her: she was better than he'd thought. He unfolded it, and read in a slightly messy handwriting:

 

_Excellent observation, Mr Holmes_

 

and under it

 

_42_

 

He groaned. Another riddle. He'd never liked riddles.

 

 

 


	8. Eleven

The smile that had appeared in her face that day seemed to have been plastered there permanently. She'd even been singing in the shower, which had rarely happened since she met Jim. Her relationship with the consulting criminal had sucked most of the joy she took on her work, as he thought of it as a means to achieve something while she considered it an art. She had considered killing him herself, but despite her desire to be rid of his annoying persona she wasn't ready to die just yet, and that seemed to be the only outcome whether she succeeded or not.

As she slipped into her clothes (black neoprene and leather, that hugged her figure perfectly and protected her from most of the damage her "victims" could inflict while trying to defend themselves) she remembered his soft, almost female hands running through her skin, one on the small of her back and the other one on the nape of her neck, holding her firmly against him as he entered her savagely, unaware, or uncaring, of whether he was hurting her.

She shivered. She had never given much thought to sex before, and he'd seemed a pretty innocent fling... until they had actually gotten at it. If he seemed to be insane while, as he called it, "working", bed was a thousand times worse. She hadn't thought him a monster even when she'd seen him kill children and elderly people; but the moment he laid a hand on her, for the first time in her life, she was utterly terrified.

When she ended it, far later than she would have liked, he didn't complain. Slowly she had distanced herself from him, and he hadn't tried to reel her back in; but when she thought she was finally rid of him forever she had received the text that summoned her to the manse she had gotten to know so well months earlier. She remembered throwing up in the nearest alley when she read it, and wondered if he'd chosen that precise moment just to bother her.

Yet, the meeting itself had gone smoothly, and for the first time since they were acquainted she hadn't walked out of a business transaction completely disgusted. Sherlock Holmes was by far the most interesting target she had ever been appointed and, while she hated to admit it, he was painfully attractive.

She had donned on one glove when her thoughts completely shifted to the tall detective, and she lifted her naked hand to her lips; she wondered what had possessed her to forget all professionalism and let her instinct kick in. Kissing a target and actually feeling something was not part of her code, yet she had no intention to stop.

The game was just too exhilarating.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

John groaned as his phone started to ring. He rolled falling off the bed, reached for it and answered without even opening his eyes.

"John Watson"

"John, I need you to come home. There's been another one, and I know what this is about." The good doctor couldn't recall a moment in which his flatmate sounded more excited than he did in that moment. He opened his eyes and looked up to the bed, where he met Mary's sleepy gaze slowly focusing on him.

"I'll be there as soon as possible."

\---------------------------------------------------------------

"It's brilliant."

John almost tripped on the piles of paper that decorated the floor. During the last month they had found three bodies, and in each scene she had left a hidden message for Sherlock. Each little paper contained a short line and a number: so far they had 42, 87 and 63. With each number Sherlock had conducted as extensive a search as possible, and had come to nothing but a bunch of wild theories that had nothing to do with the whole business between the detective and the mysterious woman.

Last night they had found a fourth body, and as the doctor had been away from the scene he didn't know which number it was this time... if there was any. For some reason John just didn't understand, Sherlock had kept the papers a secret from everyone except the two of them. He insisted that it was personal, that the Yard had nothing to do with what had been happening. John couldn't help to think of it as some functional-sociopathic form of courting, and it was working wonderfully: if Sherlock had seemed obsessed with her before now there was nothing else he could think about. John wondered if it was time to call Mycroft.

"What is brilliant?" He asked tiredly. Sherlock pointed at the newest set of sheets pinned to the wall. He had scanned each of her messages and printed them 5 times the original size.

' _Excellent observation, Mr Holmes' 42_

_'I'm impressed' 87_

_'Sit, have a cup of tea' 63_

_'Not long now' 11_

"Eleven. All the numbers have two digits. She's given me eight paired digits. What is the only thing that anyone does that for?"

John shrugged. "I don't know, you tell me." Sherlock jumped over the piles of paper and grabbed his flatmate by the shoulders.

"A phone number, John. It's a phone number. She's telling me to contact her." He said in a very serious voice. John looked up at him, his eyes wide but his expression otherwise blank. They stayed silent or a few seconds, Sherlock's triumphal face falling little by little.

"You called me in the middle of the night to tell me that some psychopath is asking you to take her on a date?"

 


End file.
